


delta

by thebeespatella



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, F/M, Penis In Vagina Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22821913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/thebeespatella
Summary: “Hey, kid,” she says, and it’s easy and affectionate. There are conversations ahead of them, in the shape of the scars they both bear now, but for now, it’s warm like porch-light in the summer dark.--After surviving the cliff, Will goes back to Molly. She's the only person he can still callhome, after all.
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44
Collections: Hannibal Rarepairs





	delta

Two go into the water. One comes out.

&

They don’t fuck the minute he gets home from the hospital. They kiss, and hug, like civilized people. He greets Wally with a one-armed hug that’s too long the minute he gives it, and Molly holds him tight and kisses him under Jack Crawford’s watchful eye. “Hey, kid,” she says, and it’s easy and affectionate. There are conversations ahead of them, in the shape of the scars they both bear now, but for now, it’s warm like porch-light in the summer dark. 

Will turns to Jack, regards him. Keeps his hands firmly in his pockets. “Go on,” he says to Molly. “Just some things to wrap up.” She smiles that odd, cryptic smile that means she’s got something locked behind her teeth and resents that he’s got the key. 

“Sure thing.” And she ushers Wally up the stairs with her. 

“Never again, Jack,” he says. 

“Will—”

“Never. I don’t care how many manila folders you’ve got stuffed full of dead girls and broken families. There are always going to be more dead girls and broken families. But this is a good thing and it’s mine. And I’m going to hold onto it with both fucking hands. Do you understand?”

Jack looks at him. His shirt-collar hides the jagged scar of glass in his carotid, but they both know it’s there. “Sure, Will. I understand. Thank you.” He holds his hand out. 

“Shake on it?” Will says, with a twist of his lips. Could pass for a smile, in another life. 

“Shake on it,” Jack says, and they press their hands together for a cold dry instant. Then Jack turns away and gets in his car, without a backwards glance. Wouldn’t do to have a tell around Will Graham. 

They eat dinner together, milk in Wally’s glass, a moderate measure of wine in Molly’s. No wine for Will, not on his pain medication regimen. They talk about the upcoming Christmas break, batting back and forth the idea of going to see Molly’s parents in Oregon. Like a badminton birdie, flying back and forth high over the net. Easy, with a high arc. Wally goes to bed when they’ve had dessert—vanilla ice-cream frosted over with too-long out before being put into the freezer, and then it’s just Will and Molly, idling at the kitchen table. She touches the back of his hand. “The dishes can wait,” she says. 

He tries to smile for her, turns his hand over so they’re holding hands, gives her hand a brief squeeze. “Wait for what?”

“I want you,” she says. “Right now.”

“Here?” 

She rolls her eyes at him. “Come on.” He lets himself be tugged up the stairs, into the bedroom. He watches their hands tangled in the dark of the corridor as they walk, the shift of Molly’s hips as she climbs the stairs. The Dragon had taken these same steps. He focuses on the sway of Molly’s jean pockets disembodied. The Dragon was dead. The blind leading the blind. 

He watches her flick on the bedside light and undress. First her shirt, pulled over her head and tossed onto the floor, then the puddle of her jeans, stepping out of them. She turns with her hands on her hips in her bra and her underwear. “Well?” she says. “You gonna keep those on?”

Will draws closer to her, wraps his arms around her waist to press her to him, to kiss her like he should have when they first got home, deep and entangled, with what’s left of his whole body. “Maybe I will,” he says against her mouth. 

“Kinky,” she says, with a laugh he can feel against his cheek. He undresses anyway, unbuttoning his shirt, letting her work on his belt and pants. They stand before each other in the low light, and she traces the bandage on his shoulder wound. “We can take it easy.”

Will feels a stab of revulsion, of rage, acid and bright in his throat. (In his shoulder, in his face). He doesn’t want to take it easy. He doesn’t want the Dragon’s claws to sink any further into his hard-won hard-scrabble little life. He wants to throw her down on the bed, hold her up against the wall, carry her weight and fuck up into her like before. Before, before. 

Instead, he lays back on the bed, raised against the pillows. “I’m not complaining,” he says. “You can do all the work.” 

She laughs and straddles him. “I sure can, big guy,” she says, and bends low to kiss him, stretching her hands along his arms, like veins, reaching up to grasp his wrists. “You just lie there and take it.” There is a shape of something there, like an animal snuffling in the dark. She’s kissing him, slow, and sweet, trailing her hands back down to lean on his chest. The hot press of her palms against his heartbeat. The way she rolls her hips against his. There are no animals here. Just two people, reaching for each other. The kind of yearning that always makes Will screw his eyes shut against the blight, against the indignity of watching people try. 

Her fingers in the waistband of his boxers, a tease against his hip. “You want it?” she murmurs into his ear. The puff of her breath, the exhale, proof of life against glass. 

“Yes,” he says. He can push up against where she’s damp in her underwear, show _and_ tell. She grinds back down on him with a staccato sigh, and reaches behind herself to unhook her bra and toss it onto the floor. “That’s a neat trick,” he says.

“I can teach it to you sometime.” She sits back up, shakes her hair free from the ponytail. Her breasts are full and soft, gentle slopes. He reaches up with the arm that has that range of motion, licks his thumb before running it across a peaked nipple. The hitch in her breath, the arch of her back as she presses into it, closing her eyes. “Thought I was doing all the work.”

“Sorry,” he says, and lets his hand fall back to his side. 

She leans down, rubs herself against him, then slides down to kneel over his legs. She was always good with eye contact, eyes clear and open. He’d never had trouble reading her, but there’s something opaque now, and he can’t tell if it’s the instrument or the object. She pulls his boxers down, almost brisk, then takes his cock in her hand. Half-hard, she strokes. A little too loose, a little too dry. Then she leans back down and takes it into her mouth, and he can’t help but close his eyes. Wet heat, the swirl of her tongue against the head. 

“Molly,” he says. 

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. Feels good, I mean.”

“Sure thing.” She goes back to sucking him, pushing him deeper into her mouth. He resists urging her along with his hips, the feeling rip-roaring through him electric. God, it’s been so long. So many nights starting at dead mothers with glass in their eyes in motel rooms that all looked the same. And now—here, livewire and erratic, the slide of her lips down his cock. The sound of it, obscene, the membrane-damp glide. He’s hard in her mouth now, gripping the blankets beneath him. A ragged noise escapes the desperate clutch of his throat. 

“Will,” she says, pulling off. “Will, look at me.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

He looks down to meet her eyes. She pushes the head of his cock back into her mouth, and licks. The bright pink of her tongue, stained with red wine. And she smiles, teeth glinting in the light. All canines in this house. 

“Molly—I need—”

“What do you need, Will?”

Something about her saying his name. 

“I need to be inside you, c’mere.”

She steps off the bed to take off her underwear, then sits astride him again. He can feel her wetness against his stomach, the torrid warmth of her. She draws a line with her finger against his scar. “You want it?” she says. 

“Yes,” he says. “Please.”

“So polite at a time like this,” she teases, going up on her knees, reaching behind her to line them up. 

“Wouldn’t do to be rude,” he says, before he can help himself, and she slides down on him with her full weight.

“I love how you feel inside me,” she says. She doesn’t say _I love you._ And she starts to move, rolling her hips, the jut of the muscles working in her thighs. He puts his hands on her waist. Soft warm—warm—skin underneath. As she arches her back into it, he can see the shadow of her ribs. Tight heat, lighting him all the way up, planting her hands on his thighs so she can get better leverage. She fucks him, almost, bringing her hips down over and over, rocking back and forth how it pleases her, and he’s glad. He’s close to coming, but he’s also glad—that they can still have this, the glowing minutes of the lamplight and her soft pants over him. Time can unravel for these bracketed minutes. He watches her. He thinks about putting his hand on her clit when she does it herself. The missed opportunity to provide pleasure grates. That’s it. She can do it herself. She can, and she would’ve, if he—

She pushes forward, and puts a hand on his face. Right over the bandage; a light touch, and it stings terribly. “Beautiful,” she says, and there is no light in her face, not when she’s so close to him. She’s still pushing back onto his dick, slower now. “Exquisite.”

Somewhere in those syllables—the sound of a siren. A car crash, a dog barking. An empty street. 

He keeps looking at her, at the smile she’s wearing. She keeps fucking him, hand tracing the scar on his forehead. The edge of her nails, then her hand meanders to his throat, circles it with her small fingers. Every time she hitches her hips up, there’s pressure; not enough to hurt, but they’ve never done this before, she’s leaning on his neck on the upstroke. 

“This is—ah—new,” he says, in between presses. 

Her smile only gets broader. “Isn’t it,” she murmurs. 

He’s on the edge—she’s clenching down, drawing out every stroke, with luxury they can’t afford, time they don’t have to spend. There’s a killer inside both of them, now. Decay in all their lungs. “Close—” he chokes through her hand on his neck, and she leans down again, he thinks she’s going to kiss him, but she just heads straight for the empty shell of his ear. 

“Yes,” she says. And then—

_“Hello, Will.”_

He comes, abrupt and hard, jack-knifing up into him, the stutter of his hips, feeling the rippling bear-down where she’s coming, too, the long gust of her low moan against his ear. He rolls them over, ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder, pumps back in, once, twice, rests over her on his elbows, pressing his forehead to hers for a moment. His rib-cage rattling with breath. He can’t stop looking at her face. The light’s back in it, now that they’ve reversed. He wonders what he looks like. 

“Hey,” she says, smiling with her whole face. Molly’s eyes are clear. 

“Hey yourself,” he says, feeling the tension leave him in the way her teeth are flat, straight, the pink wriggle of her nose when she laughs. But she stops:

“You’re bleeding.” 

“What—”

“Your shoulder. Told you I’d do all the work. C’mon, get.” She slaps lightly at his flank and Will rolls back over obediently, pulling out of her with care. She grimaces a little at the mess between her legs, dripping down her thighs. “I’m gonna clean up, and then we’ll take care of your shoulder. Don’t move.” 

Molly shoots him one last smile, and leaves him with the ghost—the ghost—of a last, lingering kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell with me on twitter @thebeespatella_


End file.
